I don’t know why the mere entry of that breezy Mohock into the room brought my unwilling fatherhood into a relief ten times sharper than I had felt it before. I suddenly felt myself a gawk and a failure before a man of the world—even though I did not wholly respect the man of the world. Once more I was acutely aware of lost freedom. Abstract Freedom, out of which I had stepped as a man steps from life into death. Luckily Fred is not one to beat about the bush. "You remember," he began, skillfully rotating the mutilated end of a cigar between his teeth, "my telling you at the club the kind of business you’d be suited for?" "A bond salesman or a dog fancier," I answered promptly. "Have you gone into anything?" I replied in the negative. "Well, I’m thinking of starting something," he announced solemnly. "A dog kennel?" I queried. "No—a bond business, Ran." "I wish you luck, my boy," I told him. "None of that—" he grinned, "I want you to go in with me." I gazed at him in speechless astonishment. "Have I said a bellyful?" he demanded, removing his vile cigar. "A—yes," I gasped, "and more." "Ha! That’s the way I am," he laughed. "Ideas come to me and I act upon them." "But—what have I done—" I began, stammering, "to deserve this—" "You’re the man for my money," he erupted boisterously, "I sometimes make a mistake in picking a horse, but never in picking a man, Ranny, my boy, never!" When Henry the Fowler was tranquilly snaring finches and news was suddenly brought him that he had been elected Emperor, I doubt whether he had felt more completely graveled than did I at that moment. But to be serious with Fred Salmon was just then beyond me. "You have come to the right man, this time, Fred," I gave him back a parody of his own tone, "not a doubt of it!" "You bet I have, old Hoss," he cried, "don’t I know it?" "That is," I went on, "if fitness, training, experience, capacity, predilection and abundance of capital are factors, you have selected the one man—" "Yah!" broke in Fred, "I know all about that. Don’t try the sarcastic with me, old boy. I know all you can say and a darn sight more. But I told you it’s the cut of your mug I want. What good is the best trained two-year old if he’s a hammer-head? It’s with a man as with a horse. You’ve got the right look to you—and that’s what counts!" The mockery of my thanks and all further attempts at clumsy satire were utterly ignored by Fred. "You’re comfortably fixed, I know," he said, ruminatively scanning my books, which curiously suggest wealth to every one. "But dash it all, man, you must want more money for something or other—more books, maybe. Everybody wants more something. I know," he ran on, "it isn’t every fellah makes up his mind on the dot the way I do. You’ve got to turn it over in your so-called bean, I suppose. All right. But remember—I don’t take no for answer." "With that trifling limitation, I assume, I have a wide liberty of choice?" I ventured.